Chapter Forty-Three
Scarlett
“Put me out of my misery”
Night settled over the mountains.
The stars hugged the sky, and everything around our chalet glowed like fireflies.
“Remind me why we don’t move out here and disappear,” Polly murmured, sipping her hot chocolate. Like me, Polly rarely drank. Zayla on the other hand…
“I’m SLOSHED,” she announced, as if we couldn’t tell six dirty martinis ago. “Seriously sloshed, sloppy, I WISH one of the guys were SINGLE.”
“They’re all single,” I muttered, blowing on my drink. I quirked a brow. “They’re all single, right, Polls?”
She warmed her hands against the fire. “Don’t look at me, it’s just been casual with Dean.”
“He’s not the kind of guy who’d fool around, you know?”
“I know that, Scarlett, I know. He’s more mature. He’s quiet, and takes care of himself. It’s just such a…”
“Commitment?” I finished, sipping my cocoa.
She sighed. “What’s wrong with me? He’s right there. The lead guitarist of Jaw & Lion. A tank in the sheets –”
“EEEEE!!!” Zayla squealed. “Bulldoze me!”
We laughed, and I squeezed her hand. “Idiot.”
Polly continued, “But a part of me is so scared that we’re not going to have time to see it through, like. I run around the city for business every day, Dean’s in a freaking band for Christ’s sakes! You… You can’t get any more hectic than that.”
“You could always go with him,” Zayla tipped the rest of her drink down. “Be a rock star gf. AH!” She yelped. “Pull a Scarlett.”
I rolled my eyes. “Not a rock star gf.”
“You’re literally just a rock star gf.”
“What the hell is a rock star gf?” Polly asked.
“GIRL-FRIEND,” Zayla and I said in unison, cracking up. I shook my head, returning my attention to Polly. “Do you like him?”
She nodded. “I think I really do.”
“Then,” I leaned back, “you’ll find a way to make it work.”
She chuckled softly. “And what about you and Ryden? Will you find a way to make it work?”
“Okay, that’s different.” I glanced over to the hill by our entryway, the guys trotting up with snowboards and empty beer casings.
Their laughter carried presents and wishes and happiness.
I could hear Ryden’s from a mile away.
I smiled. I couldn’t help it.
I always smiled when he laughed.
“If you like someone, you make it work,” she threw it back at me. “And what you two have is way more than a little crush.”
We caught eyes over the firelight before he disappeared into the chalet.
“Yeah,” I whispered, “that’s why it’s different.”
And so much harder.
***
“PRESENT TIME LADIES AND GENTS!!”
Zayla pounced over to the group holding eggnog (spiked) and warm apple cider.
Me and Ryden were the only ones not spending actual Christmas with our families because, well…
Ours didn’t exist anymore.
So a few days before the band and the girls regrouped back in New York for the true holidays, we always allocated time to visit the chalet Ryden bought after going Platinum.
It always felt like home to me.
Or maybe that’s anywhere he is.
I swallowed down a heap of apple cider, searching for Ryden. When I found his silhouette sitting by the fire outside, guitar in hand, I knew it was him against the world. It burned a hole through me, the knowledge that I was the one responsible for his absence.
Times like these I understood the itch for something stronger, but I’d already had one drink earlier. Nothing could possess me to have two.
Focus on the moment. Look in front of you.
Pulling out my Dior tote stocked with presents, I handed Zayla and Polly matching Cartier bangles. Of course they liked it, anything with a luxury brand name was a go-to on this side of the fence.
It took me a while to get used to that. I was always happy with cinnamon hearts.
Don’t turn around.
I gifted Donny and Derek vintage Versace belts (Donny’s was nicer), and Dean a gift card to his favourite guitar shop in Manhattan.
Dean was always a mystery, the hardest person to shop for.
He kept his interests close to his chest. That’s why when Polly pulled out a Frank Sinatra vinyl wrapped in an orange bow, I couldn’t help but stare.
“Two things, Dean,” I frowned. “One, Frank Sinatra? Two… orange? Really? You?”
He laughed, kissing Polly on the head with heated eyes. Hm. “That so hard to believe, Red?”
“Ugh, please do not Red me and remind me that Tav exists. Let that be your gift to me.”
He tossed a small green box at my feet. “Nope. Merry Christmas.”
I opened it, finding a folded note inside. “Paper?”
But his attention was elsewhere, just as everyone tore into their gifts, laughing, enjoying the merriment of the moment, I unravelled the paper and read his words with a pounding heart:
If you have anyone’s blessing, it’s mine.
Ryden’s like a little brother to me, and the only time I’ve ever seen that guy shine is under your spotlight, Scarlett.
This may mean zip, or it might mean the world.
Either way, I won’t tell a soul. But do yourselves a solid and find a fucking mistletoe.
End the year off happy, start the year off happier. Merry X-Mas.
Dean
P.S: He didn’t tell me. You guys are just way too fucking obvious.
…Fuck.
***
The night plateaued into drunken snores and crackling firewood.
After Dean’s little gift, I excused myself and got ready for bed. Polly was fine with heading in early, using everyone’s clear inebriation as a way to sneak Dean into her room minus the fuss.
Zayla, Derek and Donny were conked out on the couches and Ryden…
Ryden hadn’t moved from his spot by the fire table, strumming Harley.
Do I go…
Just fucking go, you idiot.
Dean – Dean knows.
How could you be so stupid?
Does Ryden know that Dean knows?
ASK HIM YOURSELF –
I forced myself to the back door, bundling myself in the cashmere knit of my cardigan, and stepped outside. The night was a brisk chill, but the heat of the fire warmed everything beneath the pergola.
Ryden never came inside to see his gifts.
Nobody asked, and I didn’t feel like supplying the answer. That would’ve lead to a gateway of questions and explanations, ones that didn’t need to involve an influx of opinions.
Ryden’s like a little brother to me, and the only time I’ve ever seen that guy shine is under your spotlight, Scarlett.
I took in a deep breath, and settled into the chair beside him. His eyes were closed, but he could sense I was there, strumming a melody I’d never heard before.
“New song?” I asked quietly.
His sharp cheekbones were rosy, and all I could see was the little boy in him, pulling out blades of grass. I wondered if he ever saw me as the girl who teased him, the girl who wanted nothing more than to be his friend.
[He did].
“It just came to me on the plane,” he said, humming between rifts. “Thought I’d play around. Let the song craft itself.”
My heart hurt looking at him. “It’s amazing… how you do that.”
“Do what?”
“I don’t know, write music in a heartbeat.”
He chuckled, a plume of frozen breath escaping his lips. “The songs exist somewhere, Scar. I just give them a harmony.”
“Huh,” I paused. “I like that.”
“High praise from a woman who doesn’t like much.” He set Harley aside, leaning into the fire. “I’ve gotten used to it.”
“Don’t be petty.”
“I’m being honest.”
“Your gifts are in the bedroom,” I forced a subject change. I couldn’t do this, couldn’t open the fresh wounds again.
His fingers threaded together as he stared off into the distance.
I wanted to bash my head into a wall, yell at myself for not letting the feelings in. They were there, fuck, they were there more than ever. They’ve always been. I couldn’t do it. For some reason, I couldn’t do –
“You know I love you, right?” He said, so softly I almost thought I imagined it.
I wish I’d imagined it.
I wish with all my heart that he didn’t say it.
We never did. Not once in almost two decades.
Love… it was as common as stability in my life.
But if there were a word for us, maybe it was this. Maybe it was love. Maybe it’s always been love.
… And maybe that’s why I was unable to place the stir in my chest all these years, being in the presence of Ryden Spectre.
He turned to me, a ghost of a smile on his face. “Figured you wouldn’t say it back. You don’t need to,” he chuckled, “just thought if I’m baring it all, might as well lay it on the table.”
I turned away, forcing the lions down, down, down. “We don’t say that.”
“Nah,” he shook his head. “Nah, but we feel it. Every day, don’t we? I’ve lied to myself for so long, you know. Lied to myself about the pain, the abandonment issues, all of it. It catches up to you, Scar.
It catches up to you, and it comes out in drugs and alcohol and in songs and in kissing your best friend a million different ways because it’s the only cure for your sanity.”
He turned to me and I felt like I was paralyzed, frozen in ice, begging for the bars to stop rattling.
“We’ve…” I swallowed, “We’ve known each other since we were kids, Ryden…
You’ve never – you’ve never kissed me before, we’ve never done anything like that before, never written a song about… about us before.”
“Yes I have,” he said. “All my songs are about us.”
“But not like Paint the Town.”
“No,” he nodded. “Not like Paint the Town.”
“So why?” I asked, shifting closer. “I just… I don’t get why all of this is coming out now. I can’t help but feel like it’s because of –”
“Because of my mom?”
“Yeah, yes.” I took in a deep breath. “I don’t –” Fuck. “I don’t know how to feel because I don’t know what’s real or what kind of high you’re running off of. I don’t know if you’re acting out, or if you’re acting on impulse, or if you just simply don’t give a fuck anymore.”
His lips pressed together, eyes glued to the fire. “I don’t.”
“You don’t what?”
“I don’t give a fuck anymore, Scarlett.” He sniffed. “Paint the Town was the only song I could never finish. Something… something wasn’t clicking. Like there was this missing piece to the puzzle I couldn’t fucking figure out.”
“It took me years to realize that puzzle was you. You and me, together. I’ve –” he pinched the bridge of his nose – “I’ve always wanted you, you’ve got to be dumb shit stupid not to know. But you’ve got so many fucking walls, it’s like climbing Mount Everest with you most days.”
“And maybe, yeah, fuck. Maybe Clara coming back to the show drew out some demons but they’ve always been there. She left when I was a teenager, Scarlett. I’m almost thirty. I can’t keep going down this path, I’m going to fucking kill myself if I do.”
“You’re not going to kill yourself, don’t you ever fucking say that to me,” I pinched his wrist, not knowing how to respond to anything – fucking anything of what he just said because he was right, he was right.
I was Mount Everest.
And I didn’t know how to change.
My therapist told me that walls only come down when you feel safe enough to seek refuge.
But Ryden was my refuge.
And I still.
Couldn’t.
Do it.
WhatthefuckVIOLETwhatthefuck.
“I think there’s something wrong with me,” I whispered, allowing some of that pain in, taking comfort in the admission. Violet.
Violet. Violet. Violet.
How could anyone ever love a Violet.
His hand sat atop mine, warm. “There’s something wrong with all of us.”
I looked at him, really looked at him. My eagle. The fire in his eyes reflecting mine, the sharp, jutted cheekbones of my warrior, my strong, Ryden Spectre, but underneath… a boy, who wanted love, who found a girl, that had nothing more to give than refuge.
“You know I…” Sayitsayitsayit. “Ryden, I –”
“I know,” he leaned in, forehead resting against mine, “I know you do, Dove.”
***
We slept in our separate beds, the moonlight and stars drifting down like glittered mist through our window.
I felt like a child, staring at him from across the room, admiring the Ryden Spectre like an obsessed fan. That’s all I could really do. In quiet moments like this, I said silent prayers to my god that he was my life, and he would always be in it.
Just like this.
Peaceful. Dreaming. Safe.
“I’m awake you know,” he said, eyes still closed.
I did know. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Mm, is it can I sleep with you?”
I chuckled, sinking deeper into my covers. “Dumbass.”
“This really isn’t a dream, fuck,” he groaned, pulling the pillow over his face.
My dumbass. My eagle.
“Why did you call it Paint the Town?”
He removed the pillow and turned to face me, resting his cheek on his hand. “The song?”
“Yeah.”
Despite the dark, I could see the smile on his face. “Paint the town red.’”
I knew where this was going. A warm heat pooled inside my heart. He told me this once before. It never had significance until now. “That saying…” I whispered.
“I started writing it after the blow up at Avenue Records, after meeting Tav, signing with Arc & Sheild.” He laughed lowly, “So many things changed but I couldn’t part with those damn lyrics, those damn memories.
You and me, travelling the world, painting the town red.
I really meant it, what I told you back then. ”
I felt the rush of emotions coming up, the memories associated with the feelings. Our first trip to the Maldives, jumping in the water despite my thalassophobia. I hated fish, the open sea. I hated most things.
But not him.
He convinced me there was a fresh water pearl at the bottom.
I cut my leg on a hut splinter.
He tended to me.
In Italy, we slow danced at night on a cobblestone walkway after the best penne of my life. There was a fiddler and a man playing a ukulele. Ryden came up with the song ‘Roam in Rome’ on that trip.
It was a miracle I didn’t fall in love on the spot.
But I guess, maybe… it’s because I already had.
It was never a waltz in Portugal or a shopping spree in Milan, not an F1 show in Montreal or skydiving in the Himalayans – it was a young boy, sitting by himself, picking blades of grass.
It was that boy.
And it’s always been that boy.
It will always be that boy.
“Paint the town red,” he said with a tug of his lips. “Red hair for my red Scarlett, huh.” As he turned around, I heard the whistle of his words. “Should’ve called that song Paint the Town, Dove.”